Unwilling Freedom
Unwilling Freedom is a story about a slave from the Manore Territories being set free into the Atalante culture, and to the surprise of his would-be releaser's the slave doesn't want to go... Final days "Thirty-four-thousand-two-hundred-and-seventeen ... Thirty-four-thousand-two-hundred-and-eighteen ... Thirty-four-thousand-two-hundred-and-nineteen ... Thirty-four-thousand-two-hundred-and-twenty ... and done!" the Slave driver said as he counted up the final slaves and sent them off to sleep in their crowded shacks. He was dressed in expensive wear: A full silk short-sleeved tunic made to look like a shimmering gold, brown cotton trousers with a leather belt and silver strap, polished lace shoes, a burgundy bow tie and to finish it all off: A slightly squashed top hat that fitted over his rounded head. His attire matched the culture most impeccably and went rather nicely with his darkened skin. He had a large nose and several rotting teeth in his mouth and spoke with a grunting voice. "Alright you ivory beggars! I want none of your little stunts tonight. Got that? No trying to escape or stealing crop for your little baby-blancos. Tonight, you will stay in your shacks and you will not wimper, cry, kick, move or anything else over the course of the night or all of you will be whipped!" Said the slave driver, who had a severe discriminatory attitude towards white people, who in the nation of Equollontus (a nation within the Manore Territories) were used as slaves. "Now go to your shacks and don't leave them until it is time to work!" The slaves were dismissed from their work as another batch came onto the fields from the west. The slave driver, Golt Farrows, went and finished his shift. Going inside the building and making sure the next driver knew his shift was on. He lived inside a large mansion that was owned by the land owner: a very rich man who had no intention of giving out money to the less fortunate. Their rooms were big, cosy and decorated with the finest ornaments and tapestries. The slaves however were just kept in broken down rotting wooden sheds. The cold draught of air passing over the clumped together bodies that tried to sleep, though none of them could for the hunger in their stomachs which made an aching which could be heard for miles around. One slave in particular, number two-hundred-and-ninety-three (they didn't have names as their status didn't require it. They had numbers stamped onto their shaved heads and the back of their hands instead), was on the top of the heap. It was uncomfortable, cold, rough and he couldn't get to sleep. The moonlight was shining in through the cracks in the shack's sides. It kept no.293 awake all night and four hours after he went to the shack a bell rang. He got up off of the huddled mass on the ground and opened the door, letting in a bracing gust of wind that the others moaned and groaned at as they opened their eyes. No.293 pulled his rags tighter around his half-naked torso and set off to where the bell rang from. He made it to the front of one of the fields and lined up with all of the other white slaves, moving forward as the line went. When he got to the front he held his hand out with the palm facing the ground. A man with a smooth white glove who was sitting at a small table pulled 293's hand down into better view and read the number on his hand, adjusting his small round spectacles in doing so. He flicked through his books until he got to the page for the 290's where he then ticked off the 7AM shift for the 39th Firt, the first month of Autumn (or Fall as known to some). The man said "Next." and 293 moved along, receiving one strip of cold bacon and a handful of rice, his meal for today. More than most would have, as it was on a limited supply. The last slaves to come forward would have no food for the day. He walked off while quickly eating his food, savoring every single piece he could, making sure none was missed. Not only would that be a waste of food, but the drivers would whip them for not eating as it would be a waste of the plantation owner's money. After finishing up, 293 made his way over to the edge of a field that was closest to the bell and picked up a sack. He started making his way along the stalks of barley and started to pick each individual grain off, one at a time, being careful to make sure every single one went into the sack. This work needed dexterous fingers that could precisely take off the grain from the stem. The slaves worked in these field for hours at a time, only having a break when the drivers decide to look at them to check they haven't stolen any of the crop for eating it themselves. It was a hot day and the work was tiring, making 293 sweat so much that he couldn't pick the grain properly and new blisters were forming over the old ones. His fingers already looked puffy and diseased for all of the dead skin that wrapped itself around the finger without falling off. He wiped the sweat off of his bald head with the back of his hand and noticed the slave drivers checking the slaves for stealing food. 293 continued working as normal as one of the other slaves were dragged out into the clearing before the fields. The driver took his whip and unclipped it from his belt, proceeding to lash the slave who he had just thrown to the ground. The other slave was screaming in pain as the whip struck his forearms which he put up to protect his face. The whip was slicing the skin with each time it touched it, drawing blood that pooled slowly from the wounds which later dripping onto the body of the slave. 293 kept on working silently, as did every other slave. They all knew what would happen if they tried to do something other than what they were told to do. The slave that was being beaten was dragged off to the edge of the field beyond sight where they punished him further. The slave who was working closest to 293, number 576, was sweating nervously. 576 looked around with his legs shaking and his body was trembling. He looked at 293 and made eye-contact. 293 was shaking his head while carefully putting the barley grains into his sack. 576 continued to tremble while making eye-contact. Then, all of a sudden, 576 turned and fled through the fields running as fast as he could. 293 made a loud continuous scream while pointing in the direction 576 was running. As 576 kept going more screams were coming from the fields in different places, making a pattern that was heading towards the edges of the plantation. Slave Drivers were running past the fields, making sure to look where the succession of slaves were pointing and blowing their whistles to alert the other Drivers. Anyone on the outside of the plantation would have thought a plague of locust had landed from the noise the slaves were making in the fields, a horrible menagerie of loud buzzing-like continuous noise. A loud drum-beat started to sound and the noise of the slaves dropped to a silence. The drum represented that the slave trying to escape had been caught. Several minutes after that a group of five Slave Drivers went past, one in front sneering at the slaves as they went and the other four holding different sections o a neck shackle that kept 576 from escaping. As 293 looked across 576 looked back at him, both knowing that 576 was about to be put to death for an attempt at escaping. 293 felt slightly sad, but then got back to his work before the drivers could see that he had stopped. He continued for the rest of the day doing the same job, moving across the stalks of barley each time he finished with one. Over the whole day he managed to get roughly two strips of one field harvested. The drivers called an early end to the day and proclaimed that tomorrow everyone must make their way to the front of the fields rather than doing work. The drivers told them that an auction was going to be held. This was because the Plantation owner couldn't afford to keep all of his slaves, so he would sell them for a profit to other plantations and buyers. Most of the slaves didn't actually understand the speech and were just standing around, mostly confused. The slaves were all then processed through people who scrubbed them down, brushed their teeth and covered any wounds with a searing hot glue that burnt to the touch, but under the layer of it the scars and open lashes could hardly be seen. After this process they were sent to sleep in the shacks again. 293 was one of the first back this time, and thus he was closer to the bottom of the pile of slaves this time, hardly able to breathe due to the mass of other slaves crushing him. Sold! He went to sleep and when the bell rang in the middle of the day they all got up and went to the back of the mansion and had their feet scrubbed, teeth brushed and any facial hair trimmed or taken off to look as clean as they could be. After this the slaves all started to line up so they could be brought to the front of the building to be auctioned off. Only the first 300 slaves who made it to the mansion were admitted into the auction, all of the others were sent back to do the work in the fields. The line moved slowly and the slaves could only hear the shouting of numbers and the auctioneer shouting them back or that they were sold. By the time 293 had reached the auction there was only a crowd of around thirty or less people. The auctioneer quickly sold off the slave in front of 293 for two hundred and sixty gold coins, seventeen silver and one bronze. 293 stepped up to the auctioneer and faced outwards, the crowd of people were staring at him while he looked back unresponsively. A wealthy looking man came up to 293 and grabbed his jaw, opening and closing his mouth with a firm grip so he could look at the slaves' teeth. "This one's got nice teeth! I'll offer fifty gold!" exclaimed the wealthy looking man, dressed in a thick fur cloak and a large feathered hat. He was wearing a richly coloured waistcoat and shirt under the cloak, and his past were un-creased and black, held up on his fat body with a large silver buckled belt. "The bidding has started at fifty gold!" shouted the auctioneer "Fifty gold! Do we have a higher offer?" A woman wearing a long dress and a face caked with make-up raised here hand. "Sixty gold!" she said in a squeaky voice that irritated those close by. "Sixty gold!" shouted the loud auctioneer in a slightly deeper voice than before. "Seventy gold! Eighty gold! Ninety gold!" the auctioneer shouted off following the hands flying up in the crowd. "Hundred-twenty! Hundred forty! Hundred fifty-five!" he shouted, the number raising quickly, yet he didn't seem to slip on his tongue or misspeak once. Another person stepped forward from the crowd wearing a tattered robe and looking like a beggar. Category:Articles by User:Avetzan1 Category:Stories Category:Atalante Category:Manore Territories Category:Slavery